


What Came On Cat Paws

by Abby_Ebon



Category: Eragon (2006), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, M/M, Magical Accidents, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:24:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking place after Eldest. Angela died, and Solembum has a secret. He is not only a werecat, he is Harry Potter, one of the last of the Grey Ones. He is also going to get revenge, though it might mean his death. In the end, can Murtagh save him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Magic Unlike What You Know

Her blood stained his fingers. His hands dripped with it. He felt his self disgust well up within himself, felt it cling to his heart, searing it with his failed attempts. He had, at least, not killed her with his own hands.

 

No, the Twins had done that, while he had been helpless to do anything save watch. In the end, he had only killed them, repaying a debt of life owed to life. Was it fair that she was worth more then merely the two Twins to him? His only living descendent, now dead – she would be buried with the rest of the dead from the battle come the ‘marrow.

 

He wanted to howl his sorrow, his pain. It seemed too much though, so he sealed his lips. He could not have explained how it was that he was not killed while he mourned her on a battlefield still fresh with bodies. The enemy still was about; he was not out of danger. It was then he smelt something other then blood, he smelt instead smoke – was the battlefield burning? He did not know, neither did he particularly care. Angela was dead.

 

He looked for the source of the smell all the same, for it was a survival instinct he do so. He found it, two dragons fought, airborne – their Riders clinging to their backs, like little toys. He was angry then, for they fought above where she had died, like little god-lings. He would bring them down then, he would see them put in their place.

 

He reached for his magic, which had always swelled and bubbled up whenever he might be tempted – which he had left alone save only for when he changed forms smoothly from cat into boy-shape. He had not used his magic since he found that he would remain forever while others wilted and died.

 

He was called Solembum now – it was the joke name Angela had given him – but he had not lied to the Rider called Eragon when he said he had many names. His oldest one was one he had almost forgot – for he had been as intent to bury it, as he had with the Ring of Resurrection in the roots of the roots of the Menoa Tree.

 

It was Harry Potter. If he had to become what he had been, once; so long ago this world had all but forgotten his like, well then, he would gladly go about unraveling it to see that Angela’s death did not pass without notice. That would be a crime he could not see committed…

 

Harry knew the moment the magic responded to him that it had changed – perhaps something like he had – it was rebellious, though it would obey, to make it do so was tiring. Yet it would be done. He would see it made so. He had no wand; he needed none, merely a word.

 

“ _Accio_ …”  With his hand outreached and his mind focused on bringing the two dragons and their Riders to the ground, he knew the magic would not misunderstand his meaning. It would not dare to. Sure enough, it obeyed, the effects were not swift, but they were inescapable, even for a dragon – that being a creature of magic, but obey the laws of magic.

 

Even so, laws could be changed if one knew the right words, but it was unlikely - Harry knew his spell was so old it was hardly considered something that would be remembered and changed; his people, which were of wizards and witches among the other magical beings that had survived the war, had made the laws forged when all were agreed, they had bled for those laws, some had died in the making of them.

 

Harry was of the last of the ancient beings known as Grey Ones; those that came before the laws of magic were wrote and words were changed so the whole of what was, and what would be, would not be threatened again by magic unraveling life as it nearly had. Their continued existence was a horded secret, one which Harry had sworn to guard till his death. He intended to do so. If that vow was broken, well, it would not go unnoticed.

 

There were still things he could do.

 

This was one of them.

 

Eragon saw him first, and that Angela lay dead beside him, Harry saw it the moment the Riders expression went to from fury to sadness. Angela had meant something to Eragon, even for all her oddities. That was something, at least – Angela would not be mourned by him alone. Saphira lowered her head to him, as if in a bow, knowing without knowing that his magic had been what had taken her from the skies.

 

With red scales that reminded Harry of blood, the bulkier dragon shied away from him, its wide eyes making it plain what it knew and felt about such strange powers. Its Rider was likely not in a much better state, though Harry could not see behind the mask he wore. Harry could felt the spells that tangled around that man – for it was a man, magic told Harry that much – were of all sorts. If his people had thought those little words that had been left could do such a thing, well, it was likely they would have let magic bring about the ruin of their world.

 

There was a way to fix that.

 

“Have you no respect for the dead?” Harry hissed the words at both of them, having not noticed in his need to lash out and bring those who had flown above to heel, that the battle had ceased; their allies had gathered to watch this strange sight. It was not often someone dared to think to question a Rider, let alone use magic to snatch dragons from the sky.

 

It was an interesting – if intimidating – sight.

 

“The battle….” Eragon rasped, his lungs stung by smoke and ‘poisons’ that wafted up from the very land. Harry shifted his balance, glancing only once to Angela, laid out prone and bloody. He felt anew the weight of his sorrow, though now it seemed silly that he had let his anger get the better of him. He did not notice the two Riders glance between each other. He spoke, though he looked to no one but the dead. 

 

“Is done; I will _finish_ it.” It was a promise to the dead, of the sort that had a weight and power with magic all its own kind. The closest to the old sort of magic Harry had grown up using. It was almost as familiar as it was terrifying. It might be that the laws of magic would be changed – were changing – even now. Magic had done stranger things on its own whims.

 

He raised his arm, tilting his wrist toward the red dragon and its Rider with his palm exposed. Both tensed, even Eragon and Saphira seemed to shudder. They knew he could use the power, though he had not sought to do so until now. With her death, it seemed he was free to do as he willed without direction. That wasn’t natural, it was in the laws that those that remained of the Grey Ones would be tied to those who could change things, for better or worse. Even with the supposed death of their people, and the listless existence of those that remained, they could not help but meddle.

 

But to do so without being tied to someone, that would lead to death, a death that would last weeks, but come all the same in the end. Harry knew the sort of painful end he would face, but he dreaded the thought of bonding himself to someone. Anyone that was a stranger, always before it had been his decedents, he had none left now. He was…alone. 

 

“Wait – you don’t want to do that, Solembum!” Eragon cried out, unable to watch without a word what he perceived to be the slaughter of another human being, no matter that only a moment above in the sky he had been the enemy – he might now be the victim.

 

“ _Finite Incantatem_.”He lifted his fingers, as if they were claws, and tore the spells about the boy. Tore was the wrong word though, no – he ripped them to pieces – shredded them like a bit of paper. It felt good.

 

“That I do not want to free him of the hold of our most hated enemy, Eragon? Well, I have. No _friend_ should be masked; do you not agree, Rider?” Harry did not give the Rider the time to disagree, for he move fingers then as if lifting something, finding the imagery comforting to make his intent clear where he did not have a wand.

 

“ _Accio_ helmet...” It was flung off, dark hair falling to shoulders where it had been tied in the helmet; slightly slanted dark eyes were wide, his mouth opening inviting flies. Harry supposed he would feel the same way, confronted with someone who might free him of his self inflicted bonds and then make his identity plain to see.

 

“…Murtagh!” Eragon cried out, after seeing the young Rider, he looked, Harry mused, as if he’d seen a ghost. Harry wondered why, though he would not use his power to find out – not just yet.

 

“ _He_ will know.” For the moment, Murtagh ignored Eragon for now (though he was clearly reluctant to do so) in favor of addressing Harry.

 

“Solembum…” Eragon murmured, only now realizing what danger Harry had likely put himself in. Though Harry seemed not to care, this clearly wasn’t the case for the young Rider or his dragon. There would be no helping their fears, Harry knew that he would die for certain soon, without a bonded. He had no intention of dying without seeing that Galbatorix – the reason his own Angela had died – was dead as well.

 

“Harry, I’d prefer.” Harry corrected, not wanting to be reminded of Angela, for that name was tied to her forever more. It hurt to be remained so. As if it was a fresh wound being infected, bit by bit. Eragon was none the less surprised at his interruption, looking now to Murtagh for guidance.

 

How easy it was to fall into old habits.

 

“He will come for you. What will you do?” Murtagh asked his voice soft with a wary sort of tiredness, though both Eragon and Harry could hear it easily. Harry wondered what good it was for the Rider to ask this of him. He had not had time to think, he was reacting, it was rash and unpredictable and wont to land him in a situation he would not be able to dig out of before he died.

 

Harry could not help the giggle that tickled his throat. If the allies and the enemies did not think him mad now, Harry did not know what would convince them. He met the Riders eyes, both were alike, both dark eyes and with the sort of earnest heroism Harry recognized from in his eerier days. He thought it might have grown worse now…

 

Something reckless, though perhaps more controlled, had made itself felt. He met their eyes all the same, a little grin curling his lips, showing the catlike teeth that remained. They did not flinch from what he had become, even Angela had occasionally adverted her eyes from him. His sorrow faded, leaving him a bit bitter, a bit more sad that he would think ill of his dead descendent.  

 

“Let him come…I will bring about his death.” Harry turned away, pausing only long enough to gather up the dead body of Angela before he started toward their camp. He still remembered where their tent was, though that was almost funny to him, for it seemed a lifetime ago.

 

He did not look back. Did not notice the silence that lay behind him on a battlefield that had been filled with the sounds of death and dying, it seemed even the ghosts dared not to stir in his presence, they mourned along with him, though they did not know why.

 

Not yet.

 

O.o.O.o.O.o.O


	2. A Promise Granted By Magic Must Be Held

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: vairetwilight; who did a lot a work to make this a better story.

"You have been reckless…" Harry knew he slept. It did not make this dream any less real, any less… _true_ in its nature. It hurt less, her death, but it had happened – it was not something he could undo, even if he willed it and had the tools he had access to in the past with him once more. Harry frowned down at his hands, not yet looking to see the source of the voice – a source he knew all to well.

"I am sorry…for this loss." She did not say what was obvious – that she thought him foolish, a child. That she wanted him to live, to choose another partner – to ruin another life to prolong his own. Something within her must have sensed his resolve in his newly made choice, hours old.

"Why have you sought me out, you know what I am likely to do. I do not want you caught in the middle." Harry let himself look up at her, only then taking in her ancient features. Silver and grey was her hair, faded, her eyes were wary amber, like flickering gold in fire light. There was life in her, even after all they had seen – all they had done to ensure magic was kept in check. She was the same as he was – a werecat, a witch – but that was not what it meant to be a Grey One.

The last that had seen what magic could do, unravel a world, and then build it anew.

They two had made the laws for this world. They were, perhaps, the last Grey Ones left. He did not know. He tried not to let that truth startle him as much as he knew it was meant to. He had, after all, lost track of time – having only bothered to live in the moment. It was all that he could hope to do, though there was no forgetting it.

"I do not want to be the last, to see you die…we are, you know, the last of – what do they call us, ah yes, the Grey Ones…such an odd name, do you not think so?" Her tone was matter of fact, someone else – anyone else, would have thought her cold. Would have thought that she cared only for her own vanity that he lived or died, that she merely did not want to be the last, the oldest….

It was, Harry knew, more then that.

"Join me, help me kill he who killed my Angela…" His voice echoed in this dream, pleading, seeking – knowing.

"You know I can not. If we avenged all those who we see die by cruelty, we would become the beginning of what we sought to end; when we die, this world is no longer in danger from such a threat. We are the last two. I will not sit idle while you undo the laws we forged. I know your sorrow; can you not act so rashly…?" _For my sake,_ was unsaid, but it passed between them in the silence.

"Maud…" Harry whispered her name, though it was not her true name – it was the name she had grown into, that she had forged for her self when the laws had been forged.

"Do not call me that, Harry; that is not _my name_ as you knew it…" It was a hiss; cat like, though it did not startle him in the dreaming darkness.

"Minerva…" Harry breathed the name out, surprised that he had not forgotten it. He saw her pleading eyes as he looked up, still odd as he remembered, the markings about her eyes mimicking long gone spectacles.

"I have not heard that name for so long…why do you insist on telling me you will die? Would it be so hard to choose another partner – to protect another as you protected Angela and your other decedents through the ages?" She pressed her lips together tightly, her eyes shining in the dimness. It was not merely their cat like natures that gifted her with shimmering eyes. He thought she might be crying, though it did not show in her voice.

"I do not know." It was, in the end, the only answer he could give her. It might have been enough, Harry did not know, even as he woke, what she had made of his words….

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry flinched awake. He knew he was in the shape of a cat. He knew also that he was not alone – someone alive sat beside him, had been _petting_ him. It had been a forced sleep, he knew then. He stared up at the girl, narrowing his green eyes threateningly. She did not stop petting him, indeed – she seemed amused with his temper. It was refreshing, though annoying to find that not everyone was terrified of him.

"Should have guessed you'd be something special, a witch like Angela doesn't let just any _stray cat_ run about her so freely." This woman, Harry remembered only vaguely – Angela had had few dealings with her. She was a sorceress; of that much he could have remembered of her easily.

"I am Trianna of the Du Vrangr Gata….and you, it is my guess, are more then a _mere_ familiar of a witch…" There was smugness about her words, and Harry wondered what it was she thought she could do. Harry glanced lazily about himself, finding Angela gone – her body taken while he had been forced asleep; it was not a true surprise. As if the sorceress had read his thoughts, she stilled her hand with a reluctant sigh.

"Nasuada asked that I _take care_ of you while they took Angela, do not be offended, but she was our friend too. She died in this battle; she deserves the same honor in the death rites…" Trianna trailed off then, as Harry offered no resistance to her notion. In there eyes, it had been an honorable death, though he wished Angela was still alive, it could not be helped. _Something_ had to be done about her remains, though Harry did not know what he would have done. Buried her? It was too late to regret not acting before this – he smelt smoke now, a mixed scent of strong smelling woods and burnt flesh and cloth. A funnel pier was nearby.

"Do you always do as you are _asked_?" Harry muttered under his breath, knowing she would hear him. She stiffened – whether startled or insulted, Harry did not know – or care in this moment. For a long moment she was silent, though he felt her eyes on him.

"For the most part, I suppose I do. No harm in that, till something better is offered up." Trianna admitted in matter-of-fact tones, Harry could not fault her reasoning. If it was all she had known, she would follow that until it no longer suited her.

"So, what were you _asked_ to do about me after I woke up?" Harry knew that Nasuada was not one to leave something like _this_ – his waking, to chance. He had shown his hand, his true power. It would be terrifying to the likes of these people. He knew they might try to keep him _in check_ , but that would never be a sure thing. They had only to wait until he died for not taking a partner, a companion.

"Werecats are rare; it is useful to have one around, providing they are on our side. So, what are you going to do about Angela's death?" _Do you blame us_? Was left unspoken, though it rung loudly in the silence that fell after her words. He noticed for the first time how tense she was, though she might play at being at ease about him. He wondered why this girl had been sent and not Eragon who had known him before the Varden.

"I am on no side but my own, as Angela knew well. As for her death…I will find my own ways to avenge with the Empire." Harry let that much slip of his plans, if only to reassure Trianna of his intentions and motives. They did not need to know more then that. They did not need to know that in this "vengeance" he would likely die in neglecting his need for a companion. It was not a choice to take lightly. Spirits stirred about him, old ghosts pleading, cries unheard by mortals, but he could hear them easily.

" _What are you_ …?" Trianna gasped the words out then, her blue eyes wide with fright as she looked down at him. Someone else could hear the dead weep for him. He knew what a sorceress could do, of course – compel a spirit to speak or act for the need of the individual. Not all sorceresses could speak to the dead – or hear them speak without being summoned.

"I am what I seem, a witches companion, a werecat; that is rare enough." Harry murmured with lowered eyes, knowing that if Trianna listened to them, they would tell her different truths. It was something he had not counted on or expected. It was reassuring, somehow, that he could still be surprised.

"They scream otherwise – that you are a pillar to this world, that you built it up from nothing…Grey Ones…you are a …. _Grey One_?" Her voice became breathy, too faint to be heard by anyone but him. Where once that accusation would have stirred fear, she was eager, her eyes hungry upon him.

Harry glared up at her, changing his shape only then, he still had sharp teeth and too thick and too sharp nails. He let her look at him until she saw his fury. She knew to be afraid, her face becoming pale, sickly. She realized only then that she had dug herself in deeper then she could get out.

"You will tell no one. I will be watching – and when I do not, _they will watch for me_." He did not have to say who _they_ were, both of them knew to which he referred. A bracelet – he had thought nothing of her trinkets until this one shivered, wriggling about alive upon her arm. She noticed his gaze; forcefully it seemed to him she stilled the golden serpent.

He _knew_ that serpent, though it took many forms and he had last seen it as something more alive about Tom Riddle's feet, then it had been called Nagini. He knew it also to be the protector of the heir of only one family – that of Salazar Slytherin. He wondered if Trianna knew – if the serpent would think to tell her. It was ironic; he now worked with those of Slytherin blood.

"I…I understand, I give my word…. _hush, Lorga_." She hissed the last words to the serpent under her breath, though she did not know that Harry would understand. She fled from him with a nod. It was clear enough what he intimidated her – or, in the least, had caught her off guard. He did not feel pleased by this small victory. Instead he followed her out, scenting on the wind the burning piers…

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"She made me a promise…" Those words were softly spoken, but they haunted him. Harry glanced to the child who was not, in truth, a true child. She _should_ have been no more then a year old. She was not. She looked like a child closer to the age of ten. She glanced to him, as if she had not expected her words to get though to him.

"So she did." Harry agreed with a small nod, he tried not to smell the flesh burning. He had kept his shape as a wild haired boy with wicked eyes. It was just as well that no one approached him. He did not know what he would have done if they had. Certainly both Eragon and Murtagh kept their distance, as if they hoped he might forget them if he did not see them. It was a silly notion, but Harry knew well it gave them comfort; they had, after all, every right to be frightened of him.

"Please, I must know…will you keep her word? Might I ever be…as I was, without this burden…this… _curse_?" She might as well have spat the word, as full of hurtful lashing as it was. Harry sighed softly, a whoosh of air leaving his lungs. He tried not to breathe in too deeply; neither did he look upward to the flames that stood only a short distance away. The dead were burning, though his pain still echoed and ghosts still lingered.

"It isn't as easy as that. What was done can be _lessoned_ – Angela did her best at that – you should be grateful…" Harry felt the lick of rage rear up within him that this child, ignorant as she was, would dare question the value of what Angela had done for her. He swallowed it down, knowing she could not help herself; he knew he would have felt the same in her place. Still, it strained his control, for Angela was burning – yet he had no peace from those she had selflessly helped in her life. It did not seem to be fair. Nothing ever was fair.

"I am, more so then I can ever say…I _cared_ for her. Like you." Elva insisted, trying to catch his eyes. He did not let her; he did not think she would _like_ what she would see within him. Ashes swirled about, some glowing still hot from the fire, others as cold as snow. He tried to take comfort in it. Angela was beyond his reach – he could not hurt her any more. He did not think Elva would ever understand that sort of…care.

"I suppose, but it is a fact, what was done to you can only be undone by the one who placed the burden upon you, such are the laws." Harry closed his eyes, his heart a hollow burden within his own chest. Laws he had forged. He could have had all his descendents returned to him, but for those same laws.

"I know what you are. Angela told me, incase…of this. Grey Ones are above the laws." Elva told him smugly, as if she did not expect him to know this – to be surprised by her words, to worry over what else she might know or reveal.

Harry tried not to sneer at her foolishness; though this time he dared look up into the burning dead. They had taken Angela as he had slept; to burn with the rest – as she likely would have wanted, not wanting to be thought too strange even with her death. He did not even know which pier she had been placed upon. It ached, this not knowing.

"Grey Ones made the laws." Harry whispered then to the dead – to their ghosts, to Elva. He could not undo what had been done, even if he was determined to. He would join the dead soon enough, he knew that until he died – the dead, their power, their sorrow…would follow him. Would give him power enough to kill Galbatorix – to tear down the Empire he had built about himself…

"What…what do I do then?" Elva asked, for the first time sounding as young as she looked. He pitied her then, for she could not help herself in what she was becoming. Harry sighed softly and laid his hand on her shoulder, hardening himself for the hope in her as she looked up into his eyes.

"I did not say I would not help you. After…collect Eragon, the others, and I will see what I can do." Harry closed his eyes to the last word, letting it fall into the night like a stone into still waters. He had as good as given his word. It would slow him down, but he was not as heartless as to ignore the plea of an innocent.

" _Thank you_ …" Elva breathed the words out before scampering off, likely in search of those he had mentioned. Harry did not watch her go.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Maud is Minerva, as in Minerva McGonagall…it just seemed to fit…


	3. Stirring Of Magic Beyond Measure

"I do not see the wisdom in this," Roran murmured, his gaze narrowed on Murtagh whose lowered head and slouched shoulders conveyed submission though he had not been whipped or beaten. He was not even tied or bound.

Roran was not the only one so distrusting of Murtagh; for Nasuada's six man guard, the Nighthawks, which represented two of each race that had so far joined her; the dwarves, the humans, and the Urgals, felt the same. Despite that, Eragon only tightened his jaw and stood beside Murtagh stubbornly. It seemed to Roran that Eragon intended to defend Murtagh against all of them, if threatened.

"It is what _he_ asked," Elva stated her tone sickly-sweet as she surveyed those that had gathered in Nasuada's caravan. Her eyes skimmed over them as if she were not really seeing them.

"What could he want with _filth_ such as that?" Orik hissed softly, narrow-eyed as his hand tightened about the handle of his weapon with his temper. Arya pressed her lips together as she stared him down, though she made no other movements for a long while. When her eyes flicked in the direction of the movement of shadows, no one else saw anything though they heard what was spoken next.

"Why not ask me for yourself, Orik?" He purred the words from the shadows, threatening, it seemed to have been forgotten that he had been their friend - and ally - on the battlefield only a short while ago. He stepped into their view, unarmed, though his narrowed eyes were fixed on them.

"Fine, _cat_ , why do you summon us in the same breath as the likes of _him_ …?" The last was spat, but Murtagh did not flinch, his eyes flicked upward to seek out Harry. As if curious, for his part Harry only tilted his head like a cat surveying food that had been set out too long. Was it _worth_ eating?

"This will concern him; do not the condemned have a right to hear their verdict, as do the innocent?" Harry asked softly, raising his brow when the two Nighthawk dwarves shifted unsurely. Orik only glared at him, sneering.

"Do not play with your words, _cat_ ; do you intend he be granted _pardon_ for the murder of King Hrothgar?" Harry shook his head, coming closer to Orik, as though he was unafraid. Those that had seen Orik on the battlefield tensed – they knew Harry was within striking distance. If so inclined, Orik could get in a good swipe, it would be too little too late to stop him from finishing off Harry for good.

Arya was as tensed as a bowstring about to be plucked. Her knuckles were creamy white as they fisted with nerves. She trusted Orik to a point and Harry was testing that. She had to trust that like Maud would – Harry knew what he was doing. She could not interfere.

"We are at war; that was the battlefield; there has not been a _murder_. You have not won yet; you can not claim him as he was never willingly an enemy. I declare him a prisoner of war – to be unharmed – while he is under my protection. If you have quarreled with him, think of me as his vassal." Harry looked Orik in the eyes, and then knelt till his face was turned to the floor. He had made himself plainly vulnerable.

Orik could do one of two things that his people would respect – he could spare Harry's life, or take it. Harry had fought beside them in battle, he had been friend to their kind – he knew well what it meant when he knelt before the closest kin of the dead King Hrothgar who sought revenge. Either all would be forgiven and forgotten – the sacred trust of battle breaking the bonds of a vow – or be killed in cold blood, the vow fulfilled, a sacred trust between comrades betrayed.

With this, Orik would not lose face by his vow to Eragon being broken – but it would mean _more_ to his people that he had kept a comrade alive. He knew this too.

"You take his place?" Orik whispered the words, drawing his weapon out. Some cringed and others flinched. They did not want to see a life end in cold blood. Yet in this they could not interfere of risk alienating the dwarves.

"Yes." Harry did not falter in his words. Trianna watched, wide eyed, Lorga about her shoulder flicked its tongue its gaze steady as it focused upon Harry, though it kept Trianna from movement. Elva watched on, biting her lip, balancing on the ends of her feet for the first time unsure of what to do. Roran did nothing, though he would not turn away – he would give Harry that honor if his life was taken.

Arya took a step forward, her skin glimmering with power – Eragon and Murtagh looked between each other, their thoughts for once similar. They held her back, faltering her for a moment – it was all that Orik would need.

"Then…for now, we have no quarrel with him or you, cat…we dwarves have something similar, it is…noble of you." Orik had set his weapon down upon the floor beside where Harry knelt. With swift and sure movements, Harry took the weapon and got up from the floor handing it back to Orik with ease.

"I do not understand. What you're doing…you're _forbidden_ from interfering with us…you'll….you will _die_. You have no bonded…no companion – no chosen… _please_ , tell me you are not doing what I think." Arya stumbled over her words, coming closer to Harry – this time no one stopped her. They were too confused to do so – except Elva and Trianna – they listened, wanting to learn more.

"What are you saying, Arya?" Eragon asked when there was only a long silence that washed over them.

"He – like Maud, is not merely a _werecat_ ; he is a Grey One. He _can not_ do…what he is doing….it will _kill_ him. Forever, he will be lost; all but dead to this world." Arya shook then, shuddering visibly at the thought. For the first time they glimpsed her eyes which had been trained on Harry. They glimmered with tears, begging – pleading with him to choose another way.

"But…I _have_ , Arya – I will – _must_ \- continue to do so. I must see this though and done, please understand…." They had never seen Harry so cold to another. They did not think they could have done anything but what Arya would want in his stead.

"Why…?" Arya whispered the word, broken and pleading.

"….for Angela." Harry was just as solid and reassuring, it was clear that he had made his choice. He wasn't turning back to change it now.

"She would _want_ you to _live_. You _must_ – I… _we_ do not want to loose one of you again… ** _please_**. Do not leave us _alone_ , we need you still…we can not do this alone…." Tears fell openly from her cheeks, she made no effort to hide them or wipe them away – in this she was ruthlessly determined, if tears of elves could sway a Gray One as it had swayed many a race and being before – she would not hesitate to use her sorrow. Eragon looked away, as if he could not stand the sight of her so vulnerable.

"I have made my choice." There was a something fierce and determined that passed swiftly over Arya's expression. Her head bowed, loose dark hair falling over her face and shoulders as if she was praying even as she stood in silence. So swiftly they could not follow her movements with their eyes, she fled.

"Is…is she telling the truth? Will you die?" Elva asked hesitatingly, if only to break the silence that had fallen.

"Elves will rarely tell you what is untrue; it is against their natures." Harry did not look at anything in particular as he answered. Elva looked for someone else to ask him something –anything – so that he would not seem so distant. Trianna took a step forward and Harry glanced to her bemusedly as if he knew what Elva was doing and who had answered her silent plea.

"But… _why_ …why do you seem to _want_ to die?" Trianna was truly puzzled, instead of looking at her, Harry looked at Lorga, when he answered; it was in a tongue only the three of them would understand.

" _I'm a curse_." Those gathered about them jerked as if stung hearing the wicked eyed boy with wild hair hissing like a snake.

"You're _not_ that." Trianna insisted softly, her eyes kind, though she spoke plainly so that she could be understood by the others.

"Be that your opinion, Trianna; I killed Angela, as I killed the others so that I may live on. I will not be a curse – a parasite – to bring suffering upon others any longer." They would have thought, rightly, that Harry would have kept such words and thoughts from them were it any other day. It was not any other day; it was the day after Angela (who they did not know how long Harry had been her companion) died. Harry was entitled to some recklessness. Perhaps it was the seeming inevitability of his death that loosened his tongue so.

Or something else, more innocent and less…

Lorga's eyes glittered and gleamed with amusement and something else besides. Harry remembered Tom, cursing his tongue and the words he had let slip so easily. They were not meant to know so much. They would have it in their heads to "save" him now. Arya was of the long lived races and _knew_ most of the secrets, these others…were not.

They respected him well enough, for being what he was – _werecat_ – but now Arya had let slip he was a Grey One, Angela had told Elva, and Trianna had known from what the spirits murmured excitedly to her. It was beyond him to keep it a secret – so he did not bother, instead he made what he was visible; they did not quite believe him, but they knew from his tone that he now intended to die. They knew as well that his dying had something do with not choosing to chain himself with a bond to one among them.

"That is a _lie_. I do not know where you got it in your head that Angela ever wanted _to be less_ then to be what she was – with you by her side. Hold your tongue, I did not like her, she spoke in riddles when I wanted answers – yet she was honest and she thought the world of you, Solembum – Harry, whichever you call yourself; if it is a bond with this world from among one of us, that will tie you to this time and place, that will keep you from death – so be it. You have tied yourself, Grey One, with your own actions – you declared yourself the keeper of Murtagh – willing to die in his place to keep him from harm. I declare him to be in _your_ keeping until your death – or his – or the disbanding of the Varden." For the first time in a long time, Nasuada spoke up with her mouth firm and jaw clenched, there was fear in her eyes; fear that Harry would retaliate against her will or reject it, but there was overwhelming determination in her as well.

"You seek to save me…by enslaving me?" Harry asked of her, bemused though also very serious. Murtagh had tensed, looking unsurely between Harry and Eragon; he of all of those gathered knew what it meant to be a slave to another's will. His jaw had tensed, though he held back uneasily.

"If that is how you must see it." Nasuada murmured, lowering her eyes. There was something that lurked in Harry that she feared, though it lingered between them in the strained silence like a bad taste in her mouth. Her Nighthawks shifted uneasily, having properly moved between Harry and where she sat.

Harry's reaction was not like what anyone (save, perhaps, the metallic Lorga) would have expected. He _laughed_. Hard and long, until tears trailed down his cheeks, he could not catch his breath and so fell to the ground, panting as he choked on his laughter and dirt on all fours. The laughter became sobs, they stood in silence – stilled by this strangeness – when Harry looked back up at Nasuada she flinched.

His wicked eyes, so alive before – were deadened – his teeth glinted in something that was plainly not a smile for it was too inhuman for that – it was animalistic – fury and defeat though the fight was not out of that grim look, his face half caught between shadows and daylight.

"As you will, so it will be – know this, Nasuada; _never_ before in all my days do I _curse_ the laws that bind me to this world as I do this day. If it would not cost me my vengeance, I would _bend_ them, those rules and laws which I forged which keep you from my grasp…. so that _you_ would _suffer_ to know what it is you have done by swaying me into this trap of my own making." Those worlds were bitter with defeat, though Nasuada shuddered as if the burst of breeze which chilled her skin could touch her soul with a bite of coldness. Outside, she knew, the day was warm and the breezes still. This was power – its source was from the seemingly broken being that was kneeled before her. She felt then as if it was ludicrous that she could do _anything_ to sway his will. That she was interfering in what she should not.

"Is…this a _true_ bond…will it…keep you from death?" Elva asked haltingly, unable to keep the hope from her voice.

"No. It will be, instead, a slow death; I will fade over a long time into nothingness, still, it will be a death. Even the likes of you, Nasuada, can not keep me from death if I _choose_ to go willingly into its embrace. I do not bond with Murtagh; I merely suffer being his _keeper_." Harry sneered as he spoke the last word, his distaste for being outwitted obvious. His eyes glanced sharply over them for a last time –measuring and remembering them as they stood before him now - before he left them, seeming to fold in on himself as he became a wild haired overly-large cat.

No one followed him.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: vairetwilight; who made this a better story by showing me what I got wrong - thank you!


	4. Spirits That Linger

"No. It will be, instead, a slow death; I will fade over a long time into nothingness, still, it will be a death. Even the likes of you, Nasuada, can not keep me from death if I _choose_ to go willingly into its embrace. I do not bond with Murtagh; I merely suffer being his _keeper_." Harry sneered as he spoke the last word, his distaste for being outwitted obvious. His eyes glanced sharply over them for a last time –measuring and remembering them as they stood before him now - before he left them, seeming to fold in on himself as he became a wild haired overly-large cat.

No one followed him.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

That did not, however, mean he was alone. Ghosts danced in his sight, Angela foremost among them. She reaches out to him, smiling, and he goes to her in a stormy silence. She can not touch him, so he curls tightly on what was once her bedding. The scent of her and the sight of her, however faded, sooths him into a half sleep.

"I am sorry." Harry tells her, as if she can hear him and understand him. If she can do either, she makes no reply, only smiles wistfully. He sees her fall, dying in his arms as a spear thrown from the Twins takes her from him, an age of companionship ended so swiftly. He knows – even if he can not remember, that he had lashed out with spell after spell until they were but dust in the wind. There is nothing of the Twins to bury, and they are not worthy to burn to ashes. Then he had held her in mourning, as her blood marred and marked him.

"Without you, I am alone, my time is short. You and I, we will not be without each other much longer." Harry does not know what comes after this life. If it as simple as he says, that Angela has gone is the truth, even as her spirit is lingering here with him; and if he dies, he does not know if he will fade in form as a ghost – or if he will simply cease to be utterly. Certainly there is no such thing as a ghost of a Grey One that he has ever heard spoken of.

She begins to weep.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"They forget what I know, what I am, if she seeks to tie me here as keeper, first it must be tested to be tight and true." Harry rises and walks in cat-shape, seeking his ward.

 _This isn't going to end well_ , Murtagh can't help but think as he watches the Grey One formerly called Solembum slink away into the shadows. Certainly it was not the start of a happily-ever-after bed time tale, not that Murtagh had ever heard the likes of those outside the ring of a camp fire of folk during one of his father's hunting trips.

Murtagh would be trapped here - among people who thought him no better then a traitor and betrayer (although none of these things had he done willingly): until Harry died, painfully. It was the sort of death Murtagh would not wish on anyone, and he would certainly didn't want to see it happening up close and personal.

"Great plan, that one." Murtagh knows he ought to hold his tongue, least it might be cut out. Yet these people already seem to think the worst of him: he is only a means to an ill ending for a Grey One who wants to die and to whom even that is denied to him.

"You have one better?" Nasuada inquires sharp tongued, brows raised in inquiry. Murtagh's lips quirk in a half smile, there is something about her that he can't help but like. He doesn't dare linger on it, least his liking turn to love. He can't afford that weakness, for it a sure thing that Galbatorix would take it and twist it. Murtagh is ever so careful with his feelings, they are a part of him and he can't afford to lose more, like keys to his mind, to whom and what he really is.

"He doesn't want to live? Let him die." Murtagh shrugs his shoulders, as if it shouldn't matter so much to them – it so clearly doesn't seem to matter to him.

"Give up? I'm sure that would solve everything for you, wouldn't it?" Roran hisses as if he's a scalded cat, hands tight about the hammer handle, as if he is some would be wrathful god, willfully smiting away his enemies. Murtagh had seen him on the battlefield and know that that is not so far from the truth.

Eragon steps smoothly between the dark wraith of a Rider and the bulkier farmer-turned hero warrior. Murtagh wonders knowing what he does - what it would have been like, if they three had grown up together? If they had begun this journey together – would it end like this in the here and now? It ached, that loss, that maybe and could have been. He flinches from the pair of them.

"Roran, at least let him be…" Eragon begins, but doesn't get to finish having his say, as Roran waves it away with his words.

"Be what, Eragon, how he has turned your head! Get it on straight, he isn't here to make friends, did he not _betray_ you – betray all the Varden?" Murtagh's eyes flash red as his dragon's hide.

"I did not." His voice is soft, deadly and daring.

"Wait, what did you say?" Eragon looks to him, to Murtagh who he didn't hesitate to show his back to, his eyes are wide with hope.

"You heard me." Murtagh's glance roves over them all, the enthroned Nasuada and her twelve Nighthawks. The Du Vrangr Gata sorceress Trianna, with that watchful golden serpent twined about her neck, the strange Elva who he felt sick to see – something about her was _wrong_ , magically. Orik who might soon lead the dwarf people; whose predecessor was dead by Murtagh's deeds and Ronan who had made it perfectly clear that he was no friend.

"Explain it." Nasuada demanded, and Murtagh meets her eyes steadily.

"I, Murtagh Morzansson was the way I was, my voice lost in the midst of many; because I refused to obey the will ofGalbatorix as my father had before me.I did notbetray the Varden willingly – I was not given the choice of free will. My enslavement to his will was proof enough of it." Murtagh glances away, for there is truth in what he says, but what he feels – even if no proof of it – is that he is dirty, that he will soil all of them by his mere presence. Even if he has done nothing, he still feels guilt for what was gained by Galbatorix – willing or unwillingly, it came from him. He is responsible for more loss to the Varden then anyone could be save Galbatorix himself.

"So believe me when I say, I know what he feels when he says he would rather die. At least he plans for some good to come of his death." There is nothing, Murtagh does not say, though he thinks it, that he could do or say that could make up for what Galbatorix gained from him. He would not risk Thorn in a chance at revenge. Thorn knows his mind as no one else, and hears those thoughts, and growls from outside the pavilion.

Murtagh turns, as if to go to Thorn; and is stopped by Eragon's hand upon his arm.

"I…I should have gone looking for you, I should not have believed you had turned your back on us so easily. If there is fault between us, Murtagh, it goes both ways. It makes neither of us right, but it can be healed. We can make it better. Will you fight beside me?" Eragon's eyes are too earnest and too kind. Murtagh does not mean to be cruel, but for most of his life he has known only cold comfort and cruelty.

"For what need…? The werecat has seen me freed, stands between me and my enemies among your friends, Eragon. There is nothing but blood between us." It makes all the difference, that blood, and what Murtagh knows – Eragon must not. What the Varden abandoned Murtagh for; they would do likewise worse to Eragon. Murtagh would prevent it if he could; would be buried with the secret, taking it to his grave.

Thorn, of course, wants otherwise. He wants a bond for Murtagh, someone human to tie him to life. He is young and does not want to die as swiftly as Murtagh makes plans and plotted for.

" _Blood which runs swift and sure, as deep as bone. Murtagh is no son of Morzan alone, the Black Hand is his dam, as she is yours, Eragon, son of Selena_." Thorn whispers it into the minds of the Riders, and they can not help but hear him. Murtagh jerks from Eragon's grip before it can become a blow, and he flees from them as if distance would do any good. He can at least not see how Eragon ends up hating him.

Murtagh's feet take him to a place he feels peace, Thorn having followed, watching lazily as he frets and paces to and fro.

"Why, why would you do that?" Murtagh demands, turning quickly to Thorn, knowing that he named his dragon well; for always has it been a thorn in his side, prickling at his plans…Thorn had grown wild and willful as a weed, and Murtagh both loves and hates his dragon.

"Do you want him in danger, as we are?" Thorn is not blind; he knows the hate which walls around Murtagh. If it was given substance like smoke, it would suffocate them both.

" _You have need of kin ties. They are there, within your reach, why not grasp_?" It may be that Thorn does not – can not – understand why Murtagh would have had buried the secret in his own grave then let it slip away like this.

"It will do us no good. It is harder to hate a stranger – but now? – now that he knows we are brothers, he will judge me beside Roran and see both sides by that blood, good and bad. It is easy to hate family; do you not recall the loathing I feel for my own sire?" His mother, Murtagh dares not dwell on, she had simply not been there – and maybe it was better that she was as a stranger to him. He could hope that she did not hate him for his father, that she was not wholly bad; after all, her brother Garrow had raised Eragon and Roran into respectable folk.

If she had dared take Murtagh, to have him raised with them – Murtagh could not even imagine the sort of man that he would be.

" _We must have their help if we are to survive._ _Galbatorix will surely feel what that werecat has done. He will come. The werecat is not long for this world if he does not bond, and where will we be if he dies before Galbatorix_?" Thorn had huddled down into the sand, clinging to the warmth of it as the sun set.

From the shadows and sand came the werecat as black as sin.

"Do not fear so. That is the point of freeing you from him, after all, his coming here. You are the bait, and I the trap. You need not fear for long either Galbatorix or I." Harry stopped in front of Thorn's snout, for the dragon had lain down in the sand, getting the last of the warmth of the sun. It was a daring thing to see, Murtagh thought, for there was nothing to stop Thorn from snatching the werecat up as a snack.

Thorn only turned his head aside, so one large eye closed and the werecat knew he was ignored. Harry laughed, bright and brilliant as the stars in the sky. It was almost as if the stars shined the brighter for his laugh.

"You can hear them." It was not a question Murtagh asked, but a statement of fact.

"Yes. I hear many things that others would not." No one knew the extent of the senses of a werecat, let alone one that was a Grey One. It was enough to give him pause at the warning touch of a chill, but it was always better to know then to not.

"Are all werecats of the race of the Grey Ones?" A cat's green eyes flashed in superior amusement.

"No. Just as not all of the races of human and elf are Riders. Yet there are Grey Ones who are not werecats at all." Harry sat and watched him, as if knowing all the answers to the questions that Murtagh had. He only had to ask.

"Why did you defend me? Orik had the right of it. I am Kingkiller." Such was the fate of those called, to be either King thereafter, or killed swiftly in turn. Murtagh had not expected to live so long after meeting kin to King Hrothgar. It was a fate that Harry has saved him from, had made a bond debt between them. As long as Murtagh lived, Harry would protect him – until he couldn't, until died as all Grey Ones unbound did.

"You reminded me of your mother." It was hard to read a werecat's expression in the form of a cat, Murtagh discovered then. He could look his fill, and Harry only stared placidly back.

"You knew her?" Murtagh's voice was soft, and if Harry had cared to, he could have ignored it as a whisper carried away by the wind. Yet he had proven today that his hearing of their minds was not to be doubted. Murtagh may have spoken softly, but inside his mind, it was a howl of loneliness that Harry could not be as heedless of.

"Not well, not for very long. Yet I like to think that at the end, she remembered us fondly. The fate of the Black Hand was bleak and horrible, but it won Selena a second name, and two Argetlam were born to her – no one alive today could say the same." Angela had only ever told the fortunes of those with whom Solembum had spoken. In all the time they had spent together, there had only been three – and Angela had not been a child, not by the standards of the Elves, but to him…she had been.

"What do you mean by that?" Murtagh asked with a frown.

"Selena did not win her freedom from the seductive sway of Mozan's ill ways until you were born. She did not know the love a mother could give a child, and power of change it worked in her; you, Murtagh are the reason your mother's True Name changed, that she learnt to love Brom, and so was born your younger brother." Murtagh's hands opened and closed, and he took a breath and held it in.

"Eragon is not of Morzan's blood?" Harry's eyes met his, and slowly, his cat-shaped head dipped in a nod. Murtagh breathed, and with his sigh came a laughter that was like a release from a binding about his aching chest.

"Good, that's good." Murtagh may not care much what the Varden thought of him – but Eragon, he would care, he would be hurt. Thorn had been careful of this knowledge of their brotherhood, keeping it between his mind and the Riders. It was not to be doubted that Saphira would know _soon_ if she did not already.

Yet it had to be made clear to Eragon that his father was Brom.

Murtagh stands and leaves the dragon and the werecat behind, and slowly the werecat smiles where only the red dragon can see.

" _What do you plot_?" He wonders, child-like and not. A dragon can see spirits, and he sees the woman weeping, as she looks between the werecat and the rider, as if she would reach out to touch them if only she yet lived. She is Angela, of this Thorn has no doubt – though he never saw her while she lived and breathed.

"He will undo what Nasuada wrought, no more, no less." The werecat answers simply, and flows into the shadows, black fur blending, as if he had never known daylight and was something ever of the night. To Thorn it did not seem like such a bad thing, for he did not like Murtagh being tied between the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may wonder where I got the title from – well, this poem, and I finally found it! So now I share, and tell you I used to sing this…a lot;
> 
> Fog by Carl Sandburg
> 
> "The fog comes  
> on little cat feet.
> 
> It sits looking  
> over harbor and city  
> on silent haunches  
> and then moves on."


	5. Meetings Between Elves and Cats

Angela sits and stares at Harry, and memories of words play between them without any words passed between spirit and werecat. They knew each other well, so well that when she had lived they often spent time in silence like this without a voice to hear by air or mind.

Words that are not hers haunt him.

"I do not understand. What you're doing…you're _forbidden_ from interfering with us…you'll….you will _die_. You have no bonded…no companion – no chosen… _please_ , tell me you are not doing what I think."

Angela and he had traveled the far corners of Alagaësia; even into the elf woods of Du Weldenvarden. It had been during the time of peace, before Galbatorix had been found worthy of a dragon bond. King Evandar had asked Maud to gather the Grey Folk for the birth of his daughter.

The daughter that had stood before him and begged, a child…

"He – like Maud, is not merely a _werecat_ ; he is a Grey One. He _can not_ do…what he is doing….it will _kill_ him. Forever, he will be lost; all but dead to this world."

If he had a heart to break, it would be broken. Yet he felt only cold and as dead as Angela. His heart had broken to pieces with her passing, and he feared there was nothing left. There was good reason a Grey One was tied to this life only so long as they were bound in bond to the living: that was their sanity and their power was bound with the bond.

("But…I _have_ , Arya – I will – _must_ \- continue to do so. I must see this through and done, please understand…." )

"Why…?"

This was the only way which Harry could act with his own will, with the power tipping and tripping his sanity. This way, with Harry without a bond and unbound: without fear for the life of another….this way alone he could act freely and as fiercely and as frightfully inhuman as his whim took him.

"….for Angela."

As if her spirit heard the words within Harry's mind, she shook her head, eyes shining with as yet unshed tears.

"She would _want_ you to _live_. You _must_ – I… _we_ do not want to loose one of you again… ** _please_**. Do not leave us _alone_ , we need you still…we can not do this alone…."

Arya was so frightfully young; only an elf child would so beg him. Young as she was, she had seen King Evandar – and with him, the Grey One called Lily of the Moon, Fairest Fire Lily ofÉwayëna, Loivissa Mani– but Harry had named her Lily Luna, his own daughter.

She had chosen to die.

She who had been playmate to the babe Arya all her short life, having the duel forms of a red furred kitten or a child with dark eyes and wild fiery hair. Both bodies had died, and Harry had done nothing but hold his daughters hand as her elf child friend sobbed and knew sorrow for the first time. She had learnt that day to hate the name and nature of Galbatorix.

"I have made my choice."

His choice, so simple, so final…Harry closed his eyes and wondered where Arya had gone and why he had not followed her or found her; she was grown, and as he knew well - if an elf did not want to be found – there was no finding them.

There was a way to spy on them, an old way born of the days when the Grey Folk struggled to speak with dwarf and dragon alike; to bring unity. Unless you bore theyawë, a bond of trust that went both ways; it could not be broken save by betrayal to the vows of good fellowship.

He closed his eyes and saw as they would see, heard as they could hear with the spell of draumr kópa, the dream stare.

"Mother!" Arya still cries, her tears dropping into the scrying bowl, in the ripples of water, Queen Islanzadí appears, her gaze focusing upon her daughter.

"Arya, why do you weep?" As any mother ought to be, she was at once concerned. Among the elves a child was a treasure, a child of their own body near sacred to them.

"Angela has died. Harry…" She wipes away her tears, though nothing can hide her sorrow.

"Harry has chosen no one. He has chosen to fade." Islanzadí's eyes glance from the silver bowl, and a new face shows beside her own. One that Arya has been familiar with since her early childhood, Maud, The Watcher, Quickpaw, The Dream Dancer has ever been at her mother's side. If they two were bonded, it was not something that they spoke of.

Maud, whom Harry from time to time had called a tabby, though she was so old those tabby marks, must have all faded into the shaggy white fur.

"We two have spoken, Harry and I, in the way of dreams. He is full of fire, as in days long gone by." Islanzadí thinks nothing of letting Maud speak to Arya by way of the scrying bowl. She pets her gently, as if to sooth the ache that is so clear in her voice.

"What can be done?" Maud tilts her head, as if listening.

"Ask him, he watches and listens." Harry's own features as cat-Solembum show plainly in the mirroring waters of the scrying bowl. Yet he is neither with Arya or Islanzadi. It is of the yawë, a bond that both elves are soothed by.

"The Watcher knows well when she is watched." Harry acknowledges with what seems to be a bow to her. Among the werecat there is royalty, but never has it been known of the Grey Folk.

Maud's smile is full of sharp white teeth.

"So speaks he who would watch our great spell work be undone, simply to have vengeance bring ruin upon this world." Her voice is near a hiss, and Harry's ears slick back as if her open criticism stings. She is one of the few that he views highly. She has always been like mother and mentor to him, and that is a deep and rare thing between them, otherwise unspoken of.

"It is but one life, one deed." So small a thing it seems to him, to make what he feels must be done to right a wrong.

"One stone thrown is cause for ripples to ring." She says it simply, a lessoned they learned long ago – it is not one Harry has forgotten, as she implies. It is one he chooses to sidestep and ignore.

"I can contain what damage is done." In less than a week, Maud thinks of loosing Angela, of Galbatorix finally falling, with Harry's death marking the end to an era of an Empire. It chills her blood.

"At the cost of your life, a convenient cost, you think? No, Harry – it is not nearly so simple. One life for another is not right, and to do this deed – you miscalculate, it would be _three_ dead – what right is there in that?" In magic, three is a number of great significance; it is not to be dealt with lightly.

"Right, you speak of _right_? I had lost my child the year that Galbatorix claimed a throne; I yet lived for Angela, and she too dies while this King plays at being in power." It is Harry's turn to hiss, as he had not since taking up the shape and name of Solembum.

"How you must hate us." Arya speaks, softly and sure. Harry is suddenly silent.

"We elves, so sure of our own power and place – were there not those of our blood foremost among the accursed Wyrdfell, Galbatorix's thirteen chosen? We are slow to risk our long lives, but – oh – Harry, I have _tried_ , I cast aside Du Weldenvarden's protections and sought to hatch a dragon egg which would find a free rider untainted by Galbatorix's touch. In this much alone, I succeeded, though it took all my childhood in the doing. Was it all for naught? Do you not think it worthy of the wait and risk?" Arya does not look into the scrying bowl, fearful of what truth she might see staring back at her.

"It was not worth so much of your life, child." Harry speaks, whisper gentle. He had not thought she had been so busy against Galbatorix, who had not been named an enemy of the elves.

"Yet you think it worth yours! How do our lives differ so much in worth and weight?" It was a demand that Arya dared meet those cat green eyes to see answered.

"You have yet to truly live; to lose you would be a tragedy." It seems to the silent Queen Islanzadí, that Harry looks upon her daughter with favor. This, she knows, can be both a kindness and a cruelty, for rarely do the Grey Ones care for those whose lives will pass with ease.

"You have lived all the days I have, and seen and done more deeds then can be recorded by we – you think youth more valuable then your experience? To this I disagree." Arya kept her chip up and met his eyes so he would see she had nothing to hide and thought it truth to speak.

"Agree or disagree, I will see my will done." The Grey Ones had ever been likened to the forces of nature.

"Be that as it may, Grey One. Your will is not the only one obeyed these days, a fortnight ago I sent forth twelve of the finest spellweavers, with Blödhgarm to lead them, and they will see to the safety of Eragon and Saphira. They should arrive tonight. So my daughters sacrifice not is not to be in vain. Among them, surely one will be worthy of your bond – or your body." Islanzadí only smiles subtlety, and Harry glances swiftly to Maud, who nods solemnly. It is a secret that the Grey Folk would not tell unless the need was dire indeed. That she would break secrecy tells how far she would go to keep him among the living. It is not a thing done lightly, the telling of the heat of the Grey Folk, their forge of hearts.

There are but three bonds that can tie a Grey One to his or her chosen - the bond of blood, between kin; the bond of a comrade, between kith; and the bond of body, the most intimate of these three.

Harry laughs, and it is not pleased sounding.

"So you would follow the folly of Nasuada, Svit-kona? Be warned, you may succeed in saving me, and make a monster which would mock Galbatorix's grave." Green eyes bleed a red that has not been seen since the Grey Folk came upon the lands of Alagaësia and tied their word to magic, giving up wands and war.

"That will not come to be." Maud's word is meant in the old way, a vow. Harry bows to it, hoping it will be as she claims. Even he, doing what he does, undoing the work of a spell set into their bones, can not tell what yet may come to be. Angela, with her gift of prophesy, would perhaps guess – but she was not among the living to have her voice heard.

And that, to Harry, was most dear to the heart of it.

He goes from the sight of their silver scrying bowls as he came, with a rippling that blurs their sight. It is as if he was never there.


	6. Bonds of Brotherhood

Murtagh finds his brother at dinner, sitting at the sides of Orik and Roran, neither of whom looks pleased to see the likes of Murtagh approaching them. Feeling likewise inclined to unkindness – if a spot of mischief, Murtagh invites himself to his brother's table, sitting with a fork and plate (of what just might be poison) to dine beside them.

"How goes your evening meal?" Murtagh asks of them, keeping a kind tongue, but only Eragon looks up to meet his gaze with anything approaching civility. Raised among royalty and nobles of the Empire, Murtagh can do naught but approve of this habit. Eragon's lips quirk in a quick grin.

"It's enough to make me miss your fire-side stew." Eragon admits, and Murtagh laughs – loud and obviously delighted. He cares not a bit for the looks from the Varden they draw to themselves tonight – let them try to lock him away, let them look with loathing or longing. It will not make Murtagh go away. It is something that everyone will learn tonight, of that Murtagh will teach them – even if it damns him.

Eragon smiles openly at his laugh, though he likely doesn't know Murtagh's reasoning.

"I shall brew some of it up for you, if it pleases you." He's agreeable at doing just that, too. Let them see that.

There is something almost skittish about Eragon's nod.

"Is that your great plot, to poison my cousin?" Roran asks, as loftily as any lord. All three of them have as much pride as any prince, Murtagh knows. Perhaps it is born of their shared blood; for a peace between the three of them, he must smoother his beneath his sneer.

"Sooner would I serve him then see him starve." He drinks down ale, as decent as the food is disgusting.

"He who serves two masters is not but a two-headed snake not worth licking boots." Orik's stares at him openly, as if greedy for Murtagh's reaction. He gives the dwarf none but words in turn.

"I served no master willingly, or have you not heard the words of my keeper?" The memory of Harry, bowed down before this dwarf, his neck bared to an axe blade, it is enough to chill Murtagh's blood of any warmth of courage won by his ale. Orik looks aside, and if there is a victory to be won, Murtagh feels nothing.

"What makes you think you are worthy to serve Eragon; or that he would have the likes of you at his side?" Murtagh knows that Roran does not see him for who he is, instead he sees a man of the Empire – who he blames for…everything.

"Save your rage for Galbatorix." Murtagh looks at Roran, then to the gathered and silent Varden.

"He is coming here." Murtagh shrugs, as if it matters not at all to him.

"How can you be so sure?' Someone among the Varden asks, and Murtagh knows not who. He finishes his drink and stands, looking out at the Varden – but when he speaks, he looks to Roran.

"My keeper took me and Thorn right under his power. He sensed it, do not doubt. He will come to kill – or collect." There is no fear of that fate in Murtagh, and when he meets Eragon's eyes he rises from the table, walking out with him. They go to where their dragons await.

"What was that about?" Eragon asks, as he goes to Saphira holding his hands out to touch her, scratching under her chin soothingly. Thorn will never act so simply compassionate with Murtagh – he knows it, and mourns that loss.

"What you heard Harry say…" Murtagh does not really know where to go with it from there.

"That we are brothers?" It seems strange to have it said so plainly, as if Eragon admits the kinship as simply as that. He does not meet Murtagh's eyes, whatever his feelings are – Murtagh con not read them. Saphira catches her eyes with his, a warning he heeds.

"It is true, our mother is Selena, but you weren't born of Morzan's blood, but of her beloved – Brom. This, you can not doubt – Harry told it to me, a Grey One's word is as good as law." After all, the Grey Folk created the world as they know it.

"You did not serve him willingly? Thorta du ilumëo!" Eragon ignores his words as if he had not said them, yet says this with a weight that Murtagh can't so simply cast aside.

"Eka ach néiat ljúga." With that said between them in the ancient langue of magic, which can not be made into a lie, Eragon was satisfied.

"Come back among the Varden, you can name yourself my brother and friend. You'll not have need of a keeper among them." Why did Eragon have to offer so freely what Murtagh most wanted? He closed his eyes so he would not see his brothers hurt, and shook his head.

"No." He had almost realized too late what this was. If not for Eragon's words – because with them came that realization. It was by luck – or fate, that Eragon said what he did.

"No?" Eragon could not help sounding hurt.

"I must remain unwelcome, if I no longer need a keeper, what becomes of _him_?" Eragon's eyes went wide with realization, at a truth beyond which he had asked of Murtagh.

" _It was his plan all along_." Thorn agrees, with a roll of his eyes. Murtagh's lips thin into a line.

"Why did you not say so?" If Murtagh demands this of his dragon, it is only as a Rider and not as a master lording over a servant.

" _I do not like the idea of this bonding_." There is nothing apologetic in at these words Thorn, it is simply the way he feels. Murtagh looks to his dragon for a long time, and finally only shakes his head at a loss for words.

" _We all must sometimes do things we do not like_." Saphira speaks, soft and sincere. Thorn glances to her and shyly looks away as if he had not heard.

"So we find you together – this is good." It was a stranger's voice that spoke, as loud as any wolf howl. Eragon looked into the night, and saw they were surrounded.

"Who are you?" Murtagh demands, taking a step forward into the dark – Thorn snarls and smoke rises from his nostrils giving him a strikingly demonic look. Saphira crouches as if to pounce and Eragon draws the sword at his side.

" _Atra esterní ono thelduin. Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr. Un du evarínya ono varda._ " At these words, Eragon puts away his sword with a smile. Murtagh would think it too soon to act so – the twelve elves that make a ring around them in the night do not seem so friendly to the likes of him.

"I am Blödhgarm." Blood-wolf, it was in the language of elves and Grey Folk alike.

It's a name that doesn't comfort Murtagh at all.

"Why have you come so far from Du Weldenvarden?" Murtagh asks, not caring that his abrupt question might insult the elves. They had had years to go to war with the Empire, and these twelve were all that came to the battlefield; it was not for the sake of war itself that they moved so, no – it was for something more.

"Our Queen sends us to act as a spell-shield for Eragon and Saphira, so to keep them safe from harm - a better question would be why do you stand side by side with Eragon as if brothers, Murtagh Kingkiller?" So his meaning can not be mistaken, Blödhgarm shows how sharp his teeth are.

"That is what we are, Blödhgarm." Eragon answers, most solemnly. He knows, as Murtagh does, that the elves keep such secrets as a matter of fact. It won't spread rumors over the camp like wildfire, no; they have done enough on their own to assure the gossip of the company they keep.

"Indeed?" A silver haired elf lady muses, and Blödhgarm's grim widens.

"Introductions are in order, I think." He muses, for all twelve know that they face two human dragon riders, and their names will go down into the memory of their kin. Yet it makes Murtagh uneasy, not to know their names in turn. Blödhgarm very clearly senses that, and also delights in it.

"Ladies Invidia and silver haired Yaela, my cousin Liotha, fair Niduen the weaver, kin to the Queen, captain Damítha who comes from Sílthrim. Lords Wyrden, whose sword skill is equal to his spells, Uthinarë who knows no fear, Laufin who knows no lie, Narí who is too clever by far; and I, son of the lady Ildrid the Beautiful." Blödhgarm bows with a flourish, his blue fur looking as if it's been preened.

"How very fair..." It's a voice that isn't expected, and when Blödhgarm jerks from his prone position of a bow, eyes flinching toward the dark cat behind him, within the shadows which creep long and deep with the coming night. There is eagerness in his eyes.

"Solembum." Blödhgarm greets, grinning, still half crouched in a bow.

"As I recall you gave me that name." Harry muses, and Blödhgarm tilts his head in agreement.

"As you gave me mine." Blödhgarm agrees, and there is something frightfully strange about seeing Harry in his cat shape come to greet the elf who names himself blood wolf. Blödhgarm who thinks his half-and-half shape caught between wolf and elf is an aspect of beauty. There could be no other reason for a son of Ildrid to shape himself so, then out of desire for a werecat.

" _Eragon, this elf smells strangely of desire_." Saphira whispers to her rider, to Murtagh and Thorn, sharing with the three of them the scent. It lingers and lures, beguiles and bespells, it is something between the two wilds of nature and magic. It comes from Blödhgarm. Eragon would walk closer, to be sure – but abruptly Saphira cuts the connection, and he knows he was nearly caught by the enchanting smell. Saphira had saved him, he knows. Now he smells nothing.

" _Why can you smell it, and not we_?" It's a thought that Eragon shares between the other three.

" _Females and felines have the better sense of smell._ " Saphira sounds as if she is reciting a fact she memorized out of a book. She very well might have done so.

" _So this scent, it is of_ _Blödhgarm's making, and the one it was made for is the werecat."_ Thorn murmurs seeing the threads of a web, having been hatched among plots and politics has made him keen to see them.

Murtagh and Eragon can not help but be aware, swift and sure, that these two have a history, to which they can't compare. Harry rubs against Blödhgarm's legs in greeting, something like a purr rumbling out of his throat, yet he is sitting himself between the elves and the dragons with their riders.

Murtagh glances between Harry and Blödhgarm, the cat and the wolf, and then looks to Eragon. If it was Nasuada who laid a bond to tie Harry with Murtagh, as a protector and keeper, this is the elf Queen Islanzadí's doing, to bond these two who have already a history – and likely more to which Murtagh won't guess.

Eragon looks to his half brother, than to Harry, if Murtagh knows this – so too can Eragon guess it.

"Are you not pleased to see me?" Blödhgarm asks with a frown, seeing where Harry had sat down.

"If you had come freely…" Harry admits, with something like longing.

"Your queen has sent you far, and for what? These riders and their dragons are safe and free. Soon I will see that Galbatorix and his Empire are ended." Harry's tail flicks back and forth, so Murtagh knows him to be ill content.

"Let me share some of your burden, we are not blödhren?" A blood oath, that word means, to the elves it is a word for kin – and more.

"That we are, but no bond more." Blödhgarm lowers his eyes, not in agreement, but not willing to argue it yet- or so openly, elves above all else are a private people, not cold, for they feel too deeply, but careful of what they risk in showing those feelings.

Niduen, whose looks are a mirror to Arya, comes forward and kneels before Harry, eyes lowered to the burden she carries in a basket of green silks and silver furs.

"That remains to be seen. This too, does Queen Islanzadí give into your keeping, Solembum-Vor." With quick fingers she opens the basket, baring the green egg for all to see. She puts it down at Harry's paws, her eyes daringly triumphant upon his, falls back among her peers with a solemn face. Harry takes a shaky breath, and shifts his shape from cat to boy, messy black hair falling into his eyes. He takes up the green egg, no bigger than a river stone into both hands, cradling it.

It is a gift that can not be given back.

Harry's forefinger trembles as it runs along the smooth shell. It shines with health, and he knows it will hatch soon before dawn of the next day. This would be a bond he could not break save by death and while a rider might live beyond a dragon's death – a dragon would not live without its rider. Harry, Grey One or not, is not quick enough to take Galbatorix into death with him by the end of this night.

As if his thought disturbs the hatchling, the leaf green shell quivers and cracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorta du ilumëo!: Speak the truth!
> 
> Eka ach néiat ljúga.: I do not (lie- ljúga; is in Old Norse).
> 
> Atra esterní ono thelduin. Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr. Un du evarínya ono varda.: May good fortune rule over you. Peace live in your heart. And the stars watch over you. (an Elven greeting)


End file.
